Where did these various
signs and gesticulations
bubble up from? The bottom
of bleachers, candy wrapper
comics, bathroom stalls?
Were they taught to us
by some kindly giant
with a Scottish name? And
where does language come
from, after all, a seamstress
of sound sitting in our
mind with nothing better to
do but unravel words?
More at http://jddehartwriting.blogspot.com.
There comes a time
That pivot point
When you lose balance
And cross over into
Creaky bones thinned-skin
Words lost in a foggy
Rear view mirror
No amount of Spackle
And paint can hide,
An uneven temperament
Of aged walls
Where nothing hangs right
Sentenced and caged
Into a mindset
Chipping away your world
Getting smaller,
Visiting hours are over
Floating thoughts from
A dangling string of pearls
With a teasing luster of light
Unresistant passion
Still within your reach
You grab it
Plan for tomorrow
And write.
I’ve been daunted by an evil muse
sending me ideas indiscriminately
mesmerizing me to write it all down
like i’m some indentured slave
but when the fog has finally lifted
all the failures come into clear view
the my interjects:
“too bad that you’re so gullible
I have no real contract with you”
then I pathetically reply:
“I never signed up for muse service
now I’m stuck with all these duds
obscuring my perfect points of view”